Dawn of a new era
In the COVID-19 world is entirely contactless travel achievable? This writer planned a trip to find out
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“Contactless” is just about the last word I would use to describe my travel style. Before the pandemic, some of my favorite travel memories were made possible thanks to contact.
But that kind of travel can’t take place right now. The pandemic is continuing to wreak havoc around the world and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention continues to tell us that “travel increases your chances of getting and spreading COVID-19.”
And yet, my impulse to travel has been in the back of my mind throughout my hundred days of working at home in isolation.
On a Wednesday night I started thinking about how I could pull off a trip with the lowest possible risk.
What if I cut out the parts of travel that made it problematic during the pandemic? The parts like sitting on planes, interacting with hotel guests or contaminating a gas station?
Convinced I could make contactless travel a thing, I booked a campsite, went to Target and bought the cheapest tent and sleeping bag I could find. Then I hatched a plan to bike to a national park carrying all of my gear and supplies.
When I looked on the internet for a available campsite, I had to keep in mind that my endurance would be a factor. I settled on Oak Ridge Campground in Prince William Forest Park in Virginia.
Yes, it was 40 miles away. No, I had never biked that far before. But I figured the energy of being out of my apartment would help propel me.
According to the CDC, the concerns with taking a trip by car is the risk of spreading or contracting the novel coronavirus while you’re at a rest stop or gas station. So I vowed not to visit any of these establishments on my ride.
In addition to the sleeping bag and tent, other necessities included: DEET-heavy bug spray, food, wine, a portable battery pack to charge my phone, a gallon of water, bike tire pump, sunscreen, general toiletries, notebook, reading material, my driver’s license, credit card, $20 cash, foldout knife, aspirin, lighter and some trash bags to haul out my garbage.
Staring at my backpack, I remembered that an REI camping expert had told me a week ago that you should pack warm clothes even if you’re camping somewhere that’s hot during the day. I bundled layers into a packing cube that could also double as a pillow at night. This would be my only source of sleeping comfort, as I hadn’t wanted to spend more money on a sleeping pad the expert had strongly recommended.
The morning of my contactless travel experiment, I posted my plan on Instagram. Within a few minutes, my mother called me (at about 5 a.m. her time).
“What are you doing?” she asked in a tone that blended terror and rage.
She was reasonably worried that her youngest, single daughter was planning on biking 40 miles into the woods to camp alone. I didn’t blame her.
If you’re going to attempt contactless travel, make sure you tell your mom ahead of your social media posts so you can tell her how you’ve already sent your campsite information to your best friends, you packed a knife and will be reachable by cell.
Meal planning for the rest of the trip came down to considering what food could stay edible unrefrigerated overnight, wouldn’t take up too much room, and was durable enough to survive being smashed in my backpack. I went with grapefruit, raisins, pistachios, peanut butter, a water bottle full of Vietnamese coffee, salami and an avocado.
If you were doing a contactless trip that lasted more than a night or two, you may want to get into the world of Meal, Ready-to-Eat (MRE) foods.
I’m not sure why, but when I pictured biking from a metropolitan area to a national park I imagined scenic pathways and leafy trails. Instead, Google Maps took me down highway sidewalks and suburban sprawl.
The majority of my experience was spent gripping my bike handlebars for dear life as cars roared by me, the hot summer sun burning my skin through the weak sunscreen I kept reapplying to no help. I set off on my contactless trip with the best intentions. I’d stop nowhere. I’d touch nothing. I’d hurt no one.
My first day of travel, I followed my own guidelines perfectly. I biked in my cloth face mask, went to the restroom in nature, resisted the siren song of convenience stores and fast food restaurants.
On the way home, after my one solitary night of camping, was a different story.
I woke up wrecked. Forgoing the sleeping pad had been a gargantuan mistake. When I’d gotten into my sleeping bag at night, the ground felt firm yet not terribly so. Throughout the night, the ground seemed to become increasingly unyielding. At daybreak, my face was swollen. My body felt like I had been stamped in a metal press. My muscles were blazingly sore. Why, dear God, had I forsaken the sleeping pad? After breakfast in a stupor, I was too tired to hike out into the woods to pee. Instead, I went to the camp restroom, feeling guilty for touching the door handles and sink faucet. I had made contact on my contactless adventure.
Then I got so lost getting out of the national park on my bike that I turned the 30-minute part of my journey into a two-hour one.
An hour and a half from my apartment, I spied a farmers market and I cracked.
I rolled into the parking lot, ditched my bike, waited in a line six feet from the patrons around me, and bought some produce, a root beer and a Thai iced tea Popsicle to eat standing alone by my bike.
The guilt rushed through me stronger than the muscle soreness. I biked the rest of the way home without stopping, feeling like I’d failed my mission. The trip was neither contactless, nor contact-ful. If you’re going to travel during the coronavirus, it doesn’t have to be a wild-goose chase that ends in guilt and pain. Remember that the pandemic is still very much a problem, read the CDC travel guidelines thoroughly before you commit to a plan, and keep your loved ones and neighbors in mind along the way.